


Tree Museum

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kittens, Longing, M/M, Major Illness, Minor Character Death, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-14 11:30:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15387834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: Arthur hadn't expected to find a great friend when he advertised for a flat mate, only someone to cover his immediate cash flow problem. But now that the cash crisis is averted, Merlin has become kind of important and Arthur finds himself dreading the moment when Merlin will actually move out. He should probably grasp the nettle and tell Merlin how he really feels, but of course that would mean talking about emotions, and that's never come easily to him. So instead, through a whole host of troubles, while Arthur and Merlin look out for each other, he fights the rising tide of his feelings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Major Illness square on my hurt/comfort bingo card. With thanks to the immortal Joni Mitchell.  
>   
>  _"They took all the trees_  
>  _And put 'em in a tree museum_  
>  _And they charged the people_  
>  _A dollar and a half to see 'em_
> 
> _No no no_
> 
> _Don't it always seem to go,_  
>  _That you don't know what you've got_  
>  _Til its gone_  
>  _They paved paradise_  
>  _And put up a parking lot"_
> 
> ~"Big Yellow Taxi", Joni Mitchell
> 
> Still unbeta-ed, but complete at last!

Arthur’s got his arm round Leon’s neck and he’s swaying as he sings the chorus from Three Lions at the top of his voice when Merlin gets in—sunburned and covered in glitter. There’s a rainbow flag wrapped around Merlin’s hips and he sports a face-splitting smile.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts. He waves his beer vaguely in a careful arc, trying to avoid spilling beer on his England shirt. “Come in! Grab a beer! Happy Pride!”

“Thanks, Mate.” Smile widening to the sort that makes his eyes sort of burst into a thousand shining crinkles, Merlin peers shortsightedly at the telly, where England are currently winding down the first half with a one-goal lead. “It was epic. So lovely to see so many happy people. Honestly, you’d have loved it. I snogged about twenty blokes. There were so many gorgeous guys—guys with muscles even bigger than Percy’s, I swear—and in this heat they were all sweaty and sleek. God! I was literally drooling! And everyone was so  happy and kind… What’s on the gogglebox? Anything interesting?”

“For God’s sake.” Val scowls, taking a swig out of his bottle. “Only the most important England match in sixteen years. Why do you put up with this poof, Arthur? When are you chucking him out?”

Instantly, Merlin’s face clouds and his shoulders hunch. Fucking Val.

“Scuse me a mo, chaps.” Sobering instantly, Arthur disentangles himself from the row of still raucously singing blokes, gets down off the coffee table and bends to grab Val by the scruff of his neck. “You, out.” He hauls the protesting twat to his feet, and propels him to the door. “Give us a hand, Perce.”

Obligingly, Percy grabs Val’s other arm.

“Hey!” Val’s chin juts out aggressively and his socks skid on the floor but against Arthur’s determination and Percy’s wall of muscle he’s powerless. “Wait! What about the second half?”

“Fuck off, Val,” says Arthur. “I’m not having you and your hate speech in my home.”

Percy opens the door with one hand, while Arthur pushes the homophobic git outside. “And don’t fucking come back.” With an efficient movement, Arthur slams the door in Vals face.

“Oi!” There’s a loud thud on the door.

“He’ll need his shoes,” Percy points out.

“Bugger.”

Bending to retrieve Val’s smelly trainers, Arthur opens the door a fraction to toss them out after him. Behind him, there’s a loud cheer. He turns to see if the match has started again, or if someone’s scored, only to see row of approving faces. In their midst, eyes dancing with joy, Merlin is applauding with enthusiasm. Their flat’s inexpertly erected rainbow flag hovers above his head like a halo.

“Yes, well, I should have done that years ago,” Arthur mutters under his breath, trying not to let the warmth that steals through him at Merlin’s approval show. “Now, where were we? Who wins the sweepstake if England win the World Cup?” As if he didn’t know.

“Merlin does,” says Gwaine. “Jammy bastard. How did you manage that, eh, Merls? The one person with the least interest in football...”

“Magic.” Merlin waggles his fingers.

With a snort, Arthur insinuates himself into the gap between Merlin and Lance on the sofa. Lance budges up a bit, but Merlin stays put, so that Arthur’s lined up next to him, thigh to thigh. The pundits on the telly are gesticulating happily, grinning like little boys. Arthur knows how they feel.

“Goes with the rainbows and unicorns.” Merlin adds. “Ooh, I know who that is! Gary Lineker. He’s cute.”

“Just cos his ears jut out like yours,” says Arthur, automatically.

“He’s got a nice smile, and he’s polite, unlike some people. Prat.”

Gwaine passes round a packet of Doritos, and when Merlin makes off-colour remarks throughout the second half about Harry Kane’s thighs, nobody minds, least of all Arthur.

 *

Val’s right in a way, though, because it’s not like Merlin will be staying forever, although Arthur won’t chuck him out, of course he won’t. But at some point, Merlin will leave of his own volition, because their arrangement was never meant to be permanent—and Arthur senses that the time when it will come to an end is drawing near.

It had been a childhood dream of his to have a place of his own, a place where things would stay where he wanted them, without being stolen or broken by pesky, sarcastic sisters. Nevertheless, when he had had a small cash flow problem after his father cut him off, advertising for a flatmate seemed like the obvious solution. But now, business is going well, so he doesn’t really need the money any more. Plus, Merlin’s got a tasty book deal now, so as soon as his sequel goes into production—it’s overdue—he will move out into a flat of his own. And Arthur’s looking forward to it, really; it’ll be nice for his pot plants and his mugs to be safe again, and for things to stay where he’s put them while he’s at work.

But most of the time, having a flatmate has been unexpectedly pleasant, despite all his initial reservations, months ago. The first time Merlin waltzed in through his front door, tripped on his own shoes and broke the pot containing a hideous plant that Morgana gave Arthur for Christmas as a joke, Arthur was actually grateful, not to mention floored by the billion kilowatt smile that Merlin flashed him while he apologised.

Merlin, the idiot, had originally tried to talk him out of giving him the room.

_“You’ll do,” Arthur says. “When can you move in?”_

_“What do you mean, I’ll do.” Merlin presses his lips into a disapproving moue. “You haven’t even asked for my references yet. I could be anybody!”_

_“Anyone who can selectively smash the most hideously unattractive item in my flat is clearly an aesthetic genius.” says Arthur. “Plus, I need the money.”_

_“But I don’t have enough money to cover the sort of rent that you’d be able to get from someone else for a place like this.” Merlin’s eyes are roving across the large, vaulted ceiling, towards the panoramic wall-high view of the Thames across to the gilded towers of the City._

_“I’m not looking for a clone of myself to share with,_ Mer _lin,” says Arthur. “Besides which, I trust my judgment about people. You clearly have taste.”_

_“Yeah, well, I’m gay,” Merlin says flatly. “I like blokes and I’m not willing to pretend otherwise.”_

_Arthur rolls his eyes. “And I’m bi, you twat, which is why I need the money. Long story. Now are you coming in or what?”_

So, it has not been bad, really, sharing his space, even though he’d been dreading it at the time. To be honest, he has never really regretted it, not the breakages or the droning hippy music… not even that time when Merlin accidentally threw away all Arthur’s receipts from a business trip so he couldn’t claim on his expenses. Because he and Merlin fit, somehow—in the spaces between their arguing and their banter, Arthur has found genuine warmth, friendship, affection… all things that he thought had been lost to him three years ago when his mum died, and the world and his father turned cold.

Ever since Merlin moved in nine months ago they have fallen into a sort of comfortable, if idiosyncratic rhythm. They look out for each other, in the weirdest possible way, and mostly it works even though, or perhaps because, Arthur’s… well,.. and Merlin’s… well. Merlin’s…

There aren’t really words for it, what they are, to be honest. No matter what Morgana says.

All that will change soon, of course, when Merlin moves out. Arthur will miss a few things, it’s inevitable. Like their cosy evenings watching trashy movies and arguing about which characters deserve praise and which should be showered with approbation. And their take-away nights… that hippy vegan rubbish that Merlin calls food. Arthur won’t miss that. Mind, he does like the indignant way that Merlin scowls at Arthur when he calls tofu cardboard. And the bright-eyed look that Merlin has sometimes when Arthur shows off on the football pitch—although there’s no reason why Merlin will actually stop coming to watch Arthur play football, just because they don’t inhabit the same space any more.

Really, Arthur doesn’t think about it all that much because obviously it will be all right, when Merlin goes. Everything will just go back to normal again and it will be as if Arthur never had a flat mate. And that is what he wants.

He'll be fine. Absolutely fine. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

It is horrible o’clock in the morning—at least, Arthur _thinks_ it’s still morning, anyway—and there’s a lot of banging and clattering going on, which Arthur manages to ignore, pillow over his head. In the end, Merlin’s hippy music blaring at top volume from the kitchen finally drags Arthur from his bed.

That’s something he won’t miss, when Merlin moves out. Bloody Joni bloody Mitchell maundering on.

An unlikely and disagreeable combination of fluff and stale beer clog the pores in his mouth. With a groan, he dives into the shower. His ablutions make him feel a tiny bit more human. Slinging a towel around his waist and another over his head, he emerges, the fresh tang of peppermint cool on his tongue, and heads into the kitchen where the damn woman is still screeching.

“What is that dreadful wailing sound?” he groans, headed on autopilot towards the kettle and flicking down the switch.

“Joni Mitchell does not wail, philistine.” Merlin glowers at him, arms crossed across his bare torso, the ridiculous jogging bottoms that he wears to sleep hanging low and loose on his hips. “And I wouldn’t have to have her up so loud if it wasn’t for the amount of mess I’ve had to sort out.”

“I said I’d clean it up.” Arthur looks round at the already spotless kitchen.

“Begging your pardon, clotpole, but I think you’ll find that I cleaned up first.”

There’s a sulky tilt to Merlin’s mouth that Arthur can’t look at for too long, because it accentuates a startlingly deep notch in Merlin’s bottom lip... So he opens the mug cupboard instead, frowning when he finds that his favourite mug isn’t there. It’s probably in the dishwasher, which is making friendly swirling noises. Arthur rummages for teabags and starts creating a conciliatory brew.

“Um. Thanks,” he says as he dunks the bags into the mugs. “I was going to do it, I promise.”

“Huh.” Merlin’s regarding him from beneath his lashes; Arthur can tell by the flash of blue.

“I would grovel, but I think you’d enjoy it too much,” Arthur carries on.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” But there’s a twitch at the corner of Merlin’s mouth. “Don’t forget I’ve got my Dungeons and Dragons game this afternoon. It’s nearly noon; they’ll be here soon.”

Arthur groans, imbuing the sound with as much melodrama as he can muster with a hangover. “God help us. An infestation of hobbits.”

“Well, at least they’ll leave our kitchen in a better state than the footballers,” retorts Merlin.

But when Arthur offers him a mug, handle first, Merlin takes it and blows on the top to take the edge off the heat. Somehow, Merlin’s arm movements manage to dislodge his obscene joggers even further. There’s a tantalising trail of hairs just above the waist band that really should not be on display at this time in the morning. Arthur blinks and swallows a mouthful of nearly-too-hot tea, scalding his tongue.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Merlin looks down at himself and the trousers slide even further. “Do I have a smudge?”

“You should…” Dear God. The lean outline of Merlin’s hips. The jutting hip bone. Ugh.  “You er. You should. You know, put some clothes on,” says Arthur, eventually, not looking away.

“Why?”

“Quite apart from the fact that your hobbits will be here any minute—”

“Stop calling them that!” interrupts Merlin. “It’s demeaning!”

“Quite apart from the arrival of the… um… middle-earth-based hairy-footed creatures…”

Rolling his eyes, Merlin folds his arms and slumps back so that his elbow is leaning on the work surface and smoulders with self-righteous ire. Arthur would be offended, except that _smouldering with self-righteous ire_ is a good look on Merlin, possibly the best, and he quite likes observing it. Regularly. Which might account for the way that he teases Merlin whenever possible. Quite what reason Merlin has for goading him in return, Arthur cannot fathom.

“...you’ll catch your death.” Taking another swig of tea, Arthur plonks his mug on the kitchen table. “And those track suit trousers have holes in. They need to go to the great Marks and Spencer in the sky.”

“Oh, right, says the man who insists on wandering around the flat wearing only a towel.” Merlin’s eyes flick slyly down to towel level and back up. “Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s a nice view.”

“Of course it’s a nice view,” says Arthur, smugly, although he feels his face heat at the compliment, and he can’t help straightening and widening his stance a little. “It’s me.”

“Huh!” Merlin looks round at the flat’s tiny kitchenette. “Sometimes, I’m surprised that your ego fits in this kitchen. But I’m still not sure why you can’t put on some trous—”

“I need to ventilate, Merlin,” growls Arthur. “It’s damp down there”

“Ahem! There was me thinking you were an exhibitionist. But no, you’re merely health conscious about your… ahem... wedding tackle.” Two faint spots of pink appear on Merlin’s cheeks and there must be something incredibly interesting floating in his tea, from the concerned way that he is now poking at it with a spoon.

“You know, for a gay bloke, you’re remarkably coy about men’s equipment.” Arthur takes another sip of his tea and makes a face. “Damn, where is my mug? This one is too thick for tea. It’s a coffee mug. Tea doesn’t taste right in it.”

Wincing, Merlin tilts his head on one side. “Ah. Your mug?” 

“Yes, Merlin," says Arthur as he tries to recall where he recognises the expression on Merlin's face from. "My favourite mug. The one I drink tea out of each morning.”

Merlin starts sidling towards the door. “Ah. Um. Now, don’t be mad…”

Oh, God. It's Merlin's shifty, crockery-breaking expression. How could he have failed to recognise it? “You’ve broken it, haven’t you?”

“Well, if you hadn’t left it accumulating mould and pistachio shells next to the telly…”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Merlin. A simple apology would suffice. But no, you have to blame me for—” 

“Dear God. You  really do bicker like an old married couple,” interrupts a new voice. "Such a shame you only get to do the arguing and not the making up by shagging on every conceivable surface part of the relationship."

Letting out a high-pitched noise that resembles the squeaking of an indignant guinea-pig, Merlin pulls open the kitchen door, through which Morgana strides as if she owns the place as usual.

“Morgana!” Arthur cries, with a surprised jerk of his hand that makes tea slosh up over the side onto the table. “What the hell are you doing here?” Hastily, he checks that the towel is still covering all the important parts.

“I let myself in, obviously.” Morgana flashes him an arch smile, the one that suggests that she knows all his secrets and that he’d better shut his damn mouth or she’ll start blurting them to the universe. “Now. What’s for breakfast?”

“But, why—?”

“Oh, come on Arthur. Elena and I have been dating for six weeks. It’s about time I came to Dungeons and Dragons with her. Besides which, Merlin invited me.”

“Traitor,” Arthur mouths at Merlin, who sticks out his tongue.

When Arthur was at university, he could have sworn that the Dungeons and Dragons club was largely populated with unprepossessing males with poor personal hygiene and solitary personal lives. He's never understood how Merlin with some sort of rainbow revolution has managed to procure a D & D group composed almost entirely of gorgeous bisexual women and lesbians. And now his sister, who probably self-identifies neatly among those groups, but he prefers to categorise as a special identity of her own: “harpy”.

Expecting one of these fragrant and kind people, when the doorbell rings he opens it with a ready smile and greeting on his lips, which fades when he sees who the next arrival is.

Ah. Will, the po-faced dungeon master. The exception that proves the rule.

“Oh,” Arthur says. “It’s you.”

“Who were you expecting?” Will‘s face is set in a permanent scowl. “Poshy McPoshface?”

“Merlin!” yells Arthur over his shoulder. “Chief Hobbit’s here.”

“Fuck off, Arthur, you elitist sod,” Merlin yells back. “You’ll regret being so rude to my friends, one of these days.”

Unaware of the prescience of Merlin’s statement, Arthur’s still grinning as he pulls on his trainers, grabs his bag and heads off to Hackney Marshes for a game of footie. 


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, when Arthur opens the cupboard door the first thing that he sees is the brand new mug perching on the shelf. It’s got just the right sort of handle and thickness of bone china to it, and the message upon the side is sufficiently obvious that Arthur knows without asking that it’s a peace offering. He’s is still beaming at it, dewy-eyed, when Merlin comes in, yawning and scratching at his bare torso.

“Is there any tea?” Merlin’s hair is clumped up in big tufts around his head in a thick, curly midnight thatch and there’s a big red patch on his cheek. Worst of all, he’s wearing those ratty old trousers again.

“Kettle’s just boiled.” Arthur pulls down a second mug.

“Thanks,” says Merlin. He bends to rummage in the cupboard that houses the cereal, exposing a length of back that curves and dips enticingly into the swell at the top of his jogging bottoms. “We’re nearly out of muesli.”

“I’ll add it to the next Tesco order.” Arthur swallows and turns away, with some reluctance, to busy himself with the kettle.

“I see you found your new mug,”  says Merlin.

When Arthur turns round, Merlin’s grinning at him with that soft-eyed smile that he has, the one that ties Arthur’s insides up in knots.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, scrunching his face up to disguise this inappropriately soppy reaction. “A _Mr Grumpy_ mug. Thanks, mate. I’m touched.” Arthur takes a swig of his tea out of said mug. “Because it’s not understandable at all to get cross when your fav—”

“You just can’t let that go, can you?” interrupts Merlin. “I’m deeply distressed at your inability to forgive me, despite my best and most sincere efforts to make amends.” As he  chews his cereal, his expression becomes comically indignant and Arthur can’t work out how he manages to make his face lengthen at the same time as plumping out his lips and making a dimple appear upon his cheek. Merlin has no spare flesh on him, not an ounce, so that dimple has no right to be there.

They continue to exchange their respective mock frowns for a moment or two before Merlin caves first, his mouth pressing up onto a massive, demented grin. In answer, uncontrollable mirth bubbles up in Arthur’s chest. Before long they’re both guffawing into their tea, and Arthur tries to avoid looking at his watch, because he knows that his time for leaving home to go to work is rapidly approaching, and he doesn’t want to go.

But then, naturally, Merlin’s phone starts buzzing, ruining the moment. “Mum” is flashing up on the dial. Before Merlin can grab it, Arthur picks it up and swipes right to answer, because opportunities like this don’t come up too often.

“Merlin’s phone, g’day!” he says in his broadest Australian accent, grinning and turning his body so that Merlin can’t reach the phone.

“Give me that, you prat!” yells Merlin, but Arthur’s darting out of the kitchen, holding onto the phone with glee, and closing the door in Merlin’s face.

“I’m afraid Merlin’s busy right now?” twangs Arthur, holding the door closed while Merlin beats against it with energetic fists, yelling choice epithets all the while. “He’s got his mouth full, know what I mean? Plus, he’s a bit of a dog’s breakfast, at the moment... “

“Oh, God, no, don’t you dare…” comes Merlin’s muffled voice. Thud, thud, thud. “This is not funny, Arthur, you arrogant, insensitive _clotpole_! It wasn’t funny the first time and it sure as hell isn’t going to fool Mum this time… just… don’t do it, I beg you…”

But Arthur lets out a theatrical groan that would grace the pornliest of porn sites. “God, Yeah, Merlin, mate. Right there… that’s beaut...”

“Oh, God. Arthur, you _arsehole!_ ”

“Hello, Arthur dear,” says Merlin’s mum at the other end of the phone in measured, clipped tones that tell him she’s seen right through his charade. Again. “Very amusing, I must say. And a marked improvement over the ridiculous Scottish accent you tried on me last time. Now, can I please speak to my son?”

Damn. She’s too good. Works it out every time. With a sigh, Arthur lets go of the door handle. Merlin falls through it, hair looking even more scarecrow-like and demented than before.

“Prat!” Merlin says, with a deliciously sulky downturn to his mouth that really highlights his dimple. He swipes the phone out of Arthur's hand. “Mum? Ignore the pillock, he’s just winding me up… No I haven’t got a boyfriend yet... No, I haven’t been dating an Aussie, Arthur’s just a wanker, that’s all… Sorry, Mum, didn’t mean to… Oh, I will, believe me!”

Still grinning like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland, Arthur goes to work with a spring in his step. He doesn't like to examine too carefully why he enjoys Merlin's sulks and frowns so much. Although he does enjoy the demented smiles and sheepish expressions too. On mornings like this, he can nearly forget what date is looming large in the calendar. He really should thank Merlin for that. 

 

*

The long-dreaded day dawns, as all days do eventually, and of course everything chooses this day to go wrong because fate is a bitch.

First of all Sefa, one of his product managers, calls in sick, so Arthur has to present her proposal to the customer - and she hasn’t even done a half-arsed attempt at it. In the end, he spends the whole meeting either apologising or promising ridiculous discounts, even though he’s ninety percent sure that the package she has put together is worth more than that, simply because she hasn’t bothered putting any notes or metadata in with the presentation. By lunchtime he hasn’t had a chance to drink any water or coffee, and his throat is sore and his head throbbing. But he can’t cancel his afternoon meeting – a three-hour strategy workshop that he’s co-chairing with Morgana  – because Annis is their most important and loyal client.

In the end, after the third time that he’s misnamed Odin, it must be clear that his head is not really in the meeting because Morgana drags him off to a break-out room and digs her nails into his skin while she hisses at him about leaving the meeting and straightening out his head before he ruins everything.

He shuffles off down the escalator into the crowded underground with all the other overheated suit-clad minions, and waits with a sinking feeling for two or three trains before he can finally find one with enough standing space to squeeze in among the miserable hot crowds. The wheels screech and clatter, driving noisy bolts of pain through his throbbing head. By the time he gets home, he’s tired and hot and headachey and all he wants to do is drown in the shower and sulk in a darkened room with morose thoughts for company.

No such luck. The place is a pigsty. There’s nowhere to sit. Books litter every surface. All the pent-up fury from the fucking shit day he’s had surges up into his chest.

“Merlin!” he roars, wincing at the impact of his own voice on his aching head. “What the fuck have you been doing?” He sweeps papers from the sofa onto the floor where they land in a flurry. “Jesus! It’s like sharing a flat with a whirlwind, sometimes. Why the fuck can’t you learn to clear up after yourself?”

He’s just preparing to do the same to the table when Merlin finally appears, eyes widening in alarm when he takes in the mess on the floor.

“Arthur? You’re home early.” Merlin clatters around picking up books. While he clears a corridor through the debris on the floor, he waves at the sofa, indicating that Arthur should sit down, then pops into the kitchen. There’s the sound of the kettle.

Fuck kettles. Arthur wants a beer but he can’t because he’s got to drive to get to where he needs to go tonight. But he doesn’t want to move from the sofa, not just yet. His stomach growls and his head throbs. Fuck. He’s just firing up the telly when the doorbell rings.

Arthur doesn’t move. He’s not talking to anyone. Not today.

There’s a commotion in the hallway and the sound of male voices, then Merlin’s head pops round the living-room door. “Leon’s here - he’s wondering where you are.”

“Fuck. It’s Thursday.” Arthur passes a tired hand across his face and sucks in a breath. Thursday night is pub night. Normally, on a Thursday night, Arthur would be the first to arrive at the pub - to get a good table, obviously, and to get the first round in. But today is not a normal Thursday and the pub is the last place he wants to go, but he hasn’t spoken to anyone to let them know, not wanting to face the barrage of questions.

“Why don’t you just tell him?” Merlin leans against the kitchen door frame, eyes kind. “I’m sure he’ll understand.”

All of a sudden there’s a mist across Arthur’s eyes, and he can’t really see the telly, not now. And it’s Merlin’s fault, because he had been doing fine up until that point, but Merlin obviously knows what day it is, he’s bloody well worked it out, and on top of that, he had to fucking remind Arthur. Well screw the lot of them.

“Fuck you, Merlin. Just fuck right off and leave me alone.”

“Here.” There are two mugs in Merlin’s hand and he puts one down before pressing the handle of the other one into Arthur’s hand, ignoring Arthur’s barked out command.

“I don’t want his pity,” says Arthur, blowing on the tea. “Nor yours, for that matter. So fuck off.”

“It’s not pity, it’s being a friend.” Merlin sinks down onto the sofa next to Arthur. “Leon’s a good mate. I know he’d—”

“I said fucking shut the fuck up, Merlin!” yells Arthur.

It feels good, to yell, but it hurts as well, because it’s not Merlin he’s angry at, not really, but nevertheless he imbues his voice with all the rage and pain that has been building in his gut all day, and hurls the mug at full force at the wall.  It smashes, and brown liquid cascades down the white paint in sad little dribbles.

It is his favourite mug.

Was.

“Fuck!” yells Arthur. “Fucking fuck the fuck off.” His eyes feel hot and his throat hurts.

But he doesn’t have to face Leon in the end, because in the hallway, he hears the sound of voices. The front door clicks closed and then there is a temporary silence. But Merlin obviously has no sense of self-preservation because he comes back into the lounge, sits on the sofa, and fires up the telly, putting “Love Actually” on, because he’s a sentimental idiot.

And thankfully now Arthur doesn’t have to talk to anyone, and there’s another cup of tea in his hand. The tension gradually ebbs from his shoulders. Miracle of miracles, Merlin doesn’t speak throughout the movie, but at the usual place, he starts to sniff.

“You’re such a girl,” growls Arthur, glad to be distracted from his own churlishness.

“I know you mean that to be an insult,” says Merlin, nasally. “But it’s a compliment. And, oh, my God, Emma Thompson is so perfect in this.” He blows his nose noisily.

“My mum loved her.” Arthur’s tension ramps down another notch.

“I know,” says Merlin.

“But even she didn’t feel the need to blub every time she watched it.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Merlin pushes himself off the sofa and makes clattering noises in the kitchen while Arthur remains in the living room nursing his mood.

When  Merlin opens the kitchen door again, something delicious and complicated greets Arthur’s nostrils.

“What’s for dinner?” says Arthur.

“Vegetable curry,” says Merlin.

“I hate veggie curry,” Arthur lies. “Bloody flavourless healthy shit.”  

“You hate veggie curry about as much as I hate obnoxious flat mates,” says Merlin.

“You don’t hate me, Merlin.”

“Exactly.” Merlin grins, his teeth flashing blue-white in the light from the telly. “But I’m glad you are gracious enough to admit to being obnoxious.”

And later, after Arthur’s had enough of complaining about the daal being too salty and the rice being overcooked, Merlin procures a bunch of flowers from some secret stash that he’s kept out of Arthur’s reach all day. So, they hop in Arthur’s car and drive to an anonymous, grey-looking address in Highgate, and by some miracle or magic of Merlin’s care, when they get there the flowers are still fresh and bright rather than all droopy and sad as they usually are.

High overhead, a crow caws. The night is warm and oppressive, and the sky a greasy, polluted grey with a smudge of orange.

“Happy Birthday, Mum,” Arthur sighs as he kneels on the damp grass. “I miss you.”

Gently, he lays the flowers on her memorial stone. She doesn’t answer. She never does.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See endnote for chapter content warning

It’s Saturday at last, and this time, it’s Arthur’s turn to shop for new mugs. He starts off by looking online but it is impossible to gauge the thickness of bone china on the internet, so in the end he spends a couple of hours on foot, browsing Covent Garden shops and blenching at the prices tourists will pay for tat.  Eventually, though, he finds a tucked-away boutique where he settles on buying a set of six matching dragon-themed mugs. They share the same motif, but each individual mug is slightly different. The colours and design are beautifully executed, with exquisite detail on the jewelling of the dragons’ skins, and Arthur can just imagine the delighted expression that they will put on Merlin’s face when he sees them.

He’s whistling the theme tune from _Dragon’s Den_ as he puts the key into the lock. At least he thinks it’s _Dragon’s Den_ , although come to think about it, it might be _The Apprentice_. Whatever.

A waft of Joni Mitchell singing “Woodstock” drifts down through an open window, which means that Merlin is at home. Good. Merlin will love the new mugs. Arthur can’t wait to show them to him.

“You were out early today.” Merlin appears in the kitchen doorway, and nods at the bag that Arthur’s carrying. “Been shopping?”

“Your powers of deduction seldom fail to thrill, _Mer_ lin,” says Arthur, trying to look serious. But Merlin is wearing a threadbare t-shirt adorned with cartoonish dragons, and Arthur can’t help it if this simple confirmation of his mug choice makes him want to break out in anticipatory smiles. “What have you been up to?”

“Same!” Merlin has a spring to his step as he pulls open the cupboard door and points triumphantly at a matching set of suspiciously familiar looking bone china mugs. “ Ta-dah! I got some new mugs, see? I got six, because I thought if there were any accidents…” he points to himself, “…or, you know, clotpolish fits of pique…” he points at Arthur, “…we would have a back-up… and I know you liked the Mr Grumpy one, but these ones have dragons on them… like my book, and your name, Pen _dragon_ , see, Pen _dragon_ , haha, geddit?" his face lights up with wreaths of those smiles that make Merlin look almost fey, the ones that Arthur would normally be entirely lost in, except that he's too busy laughing right now... "Haha, so I... and… ” he trails off, face a mask of befuddlement at the way that Arthur is doubled over, snorting with laughter. “It wasn't that funny!”

 “Oh, God!” Arthur’s sides are hurting and his eyes squeezing out water. “I don’t believe it!”

“What?” says Merlin, puzzlement puckering his brows in a way that is simultaneously both comical and rather charming. “Don’t you like them?”

“Of course I like them, _Mer_ lin!” Arthur pulls the box out of his bag and unwraps the first mug. “Why else would I go to the trouble of getting the exact same ones?”

Merlin’s hand flies to his mouth and amused crinkles line his eyes as he stares at Arthur. “Oh, God, great minds think alike.” He lets out a snort of laughter.

“And fools seldom differ,” they add, together, in unison.

*

When disaster strikes, a month later, Arthur is in Japan.

When the call comes in, Arthur is sitting in a bar in his Tokyo hotel, having a small post-deal drink with Morgana, Nakamura-san and Sato-san. He frowns and pulls out his phone, and his heart stutters a little when he sees the name that flashes up. When he looks up at the expectant faces, he manages a small tilt of his head as he croaks out “Otsukaresama desu,” before turning to Morgana, with panic flooding his veins. Why would Merlin’s mother be calling him? Something awful must have happened. 

“Morgana, would you… I’ve just got to…” he waggles the phone. “It’s… it’s Hunith.”

“Oh?” A small dart of worry appears between her brows. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ll find out and let you know.”

“Fine.” She makes a shooing movement with her hands and turns back to Nakamura-san. “So, Keiko-chan, tell me about this new spa hotel you’ve scouted out for us in Hakone, it sounds amazing…”

“Oh!” Nakamura-san claps her hands. “It’s simply delightful, Morgana-chan! You must...”

Arthur rolls his eyes as he turns away. Morgana seems to have this knack of becoming intimate friends with their business colleagues whereas Arthur is expected to remain formal and stodgy at all times. In their line of trade, mostly her charm is an asset rather than being annoying, but sometimes she likes to rub it in a bit.

But his disgruntlement vanishes when he hears what Hunith has to say.

“Oh, Arthur, I’m so sorry to bother you,” she says, breathless, words coming out too fast. “But you did say… and I can’t seem to get through to Merlin at all, and I’m so worried about him, but I can’t leave Ealdor, not with Will’s mum the way she is, poor soul, and…”

“What happened?”

“It’s Will,” she says, her voice cracking. “You know, Merlin’s friend, Will?”

“The chief hobbit?” puzzled, Arthur squints at the sky. It looks like it might rain. “What about him?”

“It’s not a laughing matter, Arthur. Will… He had an accident, Arthur. I’m sorry to say… I’m sorry to say…” her breath hitches for a moment. “He’s dead. He died before they could get him to hospital.”

“Oh,” says Arthur, faintly. “And Merlin… I see.” He closes his eyes, and pictures Will’s face, imagines the pain that his passing will cause Merlin. “That’s horrible news. I’m so sorry.”

“And I’m sorry to break such awful news to you on the phone, Arthur, I know you’re travelling at the moment, but no-one else has a key and he isn’t even answering the door to Gwen and I don’t want to call the police but I’m really worried…”

“Hunith, you did the right thing. I’m glad you called me,” he says, as firmly as he can when worry is already making his skin prickle and his hands grow clammy. “Don’t worry. I’m on my way already.”

It’s at times like this that he’s grateful for Morgana’s competence, which means that he can entrust the outcome of the rest of the trip to her.

Oh, who is he kidding? He is always grateful for her competence.

*

When Arthur finally switches on the light in the living room of their flat, Merlin is sitting on the sofa in the dark, as if he hasn’t moved since Arthur left. Black half circles underline red-rimmed eyes. He looks devastated.

 _Thank God,_ whispers an inner part of Arthur into the cavern of his mind, erasing a bleak knot of worry that he hadn't dared to let himself articulate, not even internally. But even as it vanishes, it makes Arthur's knees feel weak with relief for a moment, and his hands won't stop shaking.  _Thank God. He's alive._

Merlin blinks up at Arthur, open mouthed.

“Arthur?” he croaks. “But you’re in Japan.”

“Not any more.” Arthur crosses the room and sits next to Merlin with a sigh. “Your mum called and told me about Will’s accident. She was worried about you.”

“I’m fine, Arthur, honestly, you didn’t need to...”

“Of course you are,” says Arthur, although he clearly isn’t. “But anyway, I can’t bear Japan. I was just looking for an excuse to come back, really. All that delicious, healthy food. Ugh. Give me some good old British crap any time… talking of which, I’m starving. When was the last time you ate?”

Merlin swallows and looks away but doesn’t speak.

“Your silence speaks volumes.” Arthur stands again to drag his suitcase into his room, where he stands gazing at his bed for a moment while he wills his hands to stop trembling. He’s been on the go for thirty hours without sleeping, and his bed looks so tempting but…

On impulse, he grabs Hobbes from his pillow, and brings him back to the sofa. Merlin hasn’t moved.

“Here,” says Arthur, thrusting the plushy tiger into Merlin’s hands. “Hobbes wants a hug. Can you hold on to him for me while I order some food?”

Merlin still doesn’t speak, but his long fingers stroke the tiger’s fur and he buries his face in Hobbes’s back. After a moment or two, his shoulders start to shake. Sitting, Arthur rests his hand on Merlin’s arm and waits for the tremors to pass.

After a while, Arthur brews up some tea. “Want to talk about it?” he says.

Dumbly, Merlin shakes his head. He looks brittle and too pale.

Arthur remembers how it was when his mum died - he hadn’t wanted to talk about it at all. He had just wanted to sit, numb and disbelieving, waiting for someone to tell him it was all just a horrible joke. And no-one could, of course they couldn’t because it wasn’t; it was real. So instead, Arthur just sits there next to Merlin on the sofa, talking about the cherry blossom in Kyoto, and how bloody clean all the trains are in Japan, and how weird it is to have beer vending machines on street corners. He watches out of the corner of his eye while Merlin takes one sip of tea, and then another.

“We’d been best friends since I was six years old,” Merlin says eventually, when his mug is nearly empty and beginning to slip from his grasp.

“Yeah.” Arthur gently removes the cup from Merlin’s hand and places it on the table. “Yeah, I know.”

“I know you didn’t like him, but he was like a brother to me.”

“Yeah,” says Arthur. “Yeah, he was.”

“I mean, he was a right stubborn arse, sometimes, but we had each other’s backs, and it just isn’t fair.” Merlin gazes at the table. “I’ll bloody miss him so much.”

Fishing around for something to say that isn’t yet another variant of, “yeah I know,” Arthur eventually comes up with, “he didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

“That’s it, that’s exactly it.” There is more colour to Merlin’s cheeks, at last.

The buzzer goes. With a relieved squeeze of Merlin’s bony shoulder, Arthur stands to answer the door. Their take-away is there and he’s suddenly famished. Merlin’s hand shoots out, clutching Arthur’s arm.

“Arthur?” Merlin whispers. His eyes are enormous and round, and too bright in the dim light from the telly, but he’s still clinging on to Hobbes, and Arthur counts that as a victory.

“Mmm?”

“Thank you. For… for coming back. And for just... you know.”

“Yeah.” Arthur nods and flashes Merlin a sympathetic half smile. “Yeah, I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: offscreen minor character death.


	5. Chapter 5

A few days after Will’s funeral, Merlin still looks pale and gaunt, but a little less haggard. It helps that Gwen and Elena and Freya and all the other hobbits have been fussing around him like little hobbit-y hens. Also, following the funeral and wake, the whole group of them got together with Will’s mum and did whatever it is that hobbits do with their dice and their odd little hobbit-y costumes that Arthur teases them mercilessly for, but can’t help liking the look of. It’s all that leather. There’s something about leather. But leather or not, Arthur’s still not sure about going back to work yet and leaving Merlin in the flat all on his own with his books and his word processor and his grief, because although Merlin smiles occasionally to be polite, when he thinks no-one’s looking a look of infinite sadness flits across his face and he looks so lost that it makes Arthur ache in a truly horrible way.

So, before he goes back into the office, Arthur calls a few contacts and pops out for a few minutes, leaving Merlin in Hobbes’s company. It’s been expensive and awkward, and he had to call in more than a few favours, but the expression on Merlin’s face when Arthur plonks a tiny and extremely disgruntled kitten on his lap is worth every penny.

She hisses at Arthur, white fluff fanning out around her head like a mane, and deals him a blow with her tiny paws before settling down on Merlin’s bony lap, with her weight on her haunches, licking at her forepaw with a tiny kittenish tongue. Her fur is dazzlingly white save for the brown-pink smudge of her nose and a tan shadow across the top of her ears. Many would call her adorable, but in the few short hours of their acquaintance Arthur has discovered that she is a she-devil in disguise.

“Oh my God!” says Merlin, picking her up and nuzzling her nose. “She’s so beautiful! Whose is she?”

“She’s for you,” says Arthur. “Don’t let her scratch the furniture.”

“I can keep her?” Merlin’s face is a mask of happy astonishment.

The kitten blinks at Merlin solemnly and kneads Merlin’s thighs, purring like a spitfire, before curling onto his lap with a yawn that’s rimmed with needles. Trust Merlin to tame her completely within seconds of meeting her.

“Yeah, well.” Arthur coughs to hide the soft feeling that steals over his heart. “Um. You know. I want Hobbes back.”

“What’s her name?”

“Tibbles.”

 _“Tibbles?”_ says Merlin, aghast. “No way. No, I’m going to call her something much more in keeping with her beauty and elegance. How about… Madam Mephistopheles?”

“Much though I agree she’s a demon in disguise, Merlin, that’s a quite long name to yell into the neighbourhood when she’s disappeared off to terrorise the local small mammal population. What about Snowy?”

“Too cliched.” Merlin frowns. “I’ve always liked the name Aithusa.”

“No way,” says Arthur, firmly. “That’s far too new age and hippy.”

“Fine, we’ll name her Dollophead, then. After you.”

Arthur just looks on helplessly while Merlin dissolves into laughter that’s like the sound of rain after a long drought.

Later on, Aithusa stalks back to her cat basket and nestles in among her blankets and plushy mice. So, they sit and drink beer out of the can. Or rather, Arthur drinks beer out of the can while Merlin sips water because he’s a giant lightweight when it comes to beer and keeps pretending that he’s got a belly ache, but Arthur knows he’s just saying that because he can’t handle his liquor.

And then they watch “Love Actually”, which Arthur has specifically chosen despite his own complicated feelings about the film, because it will cheer Merlin up. Besides the evidence that Merlin takes this damned movie out every time Arthur is in a mood, Arthur has come to learn that there’s nothing that Merlin loves more than a romantic comedy, and anything with Hugh Grant in it being an upper class prat, because he has a confessed weakness for upper class prats that Arthur would never have known about except that Gwen teases him mercilessly about it.

Predictably, Merlin’s eyes become suspiciously bright when Emma Thompson’s character opens the parcel from her husband that contains a Joni Mitchell CD instead of the beautiful jewel she knows he bought.

“You’re actually Emma Thompson’s character, aren’t you?” says Arthur, relaxing with great relief into their usual teasing banter. “Pretending to be oh so practical, but actually you’re sentimental and in love with Joni Mitchell.”

“Bollocks.” Merlin takes a swig of his beer. “Did you know that Emma was channelling her own grief at her relationship breakdown with Ken Branagh when she was filming this scene? It’s the universal theme of betrayal and putting a brave face on things that fills me with awe here, and if anyone wants to diss this movie there are plenty of things about it that are problematic, but Emma’s portrayal of… what….?”

With horror, Arthur realises that he’s actually smiling faintly because Merlin is flailing about his favourite movie again, and he’s missed it more than he can possibly say. So he swallows and says “welcome back,” instead, and punches Merlin in the arm, but not hard.

With a wan, lopsided grin, Merlin punches him back. “Anyway,” he adds, slyly. “You’re far more like Emma Thompson’s character than me. Didn’t you hear what she said? _Joni took your cold, English wife and taught her how to feel._ You’re far more cold and English than me.”

“But I never even listen to Joni Mitchell!”

“I rest my case.”

“Are you saying that I’m unfeeling?” Arthur stares. He’s losing track of this conversation, and although it’s meant to be cheering Merlin up and seems to be succeeding, he can’t help being a bit miffed at the turn that it has taken.

Merlin stares back at him for a long moment before shaking his head with a half smile.

“No, Arthur,” he says softly. “I was joking, but it isn’t funny and I apologise. Because I don’t think that about you at all. I don’t know where I’d have been without you, these last few days, to be honest.”

Not knowing quite what to say, Arthur returns Merlin's soft-eyed gaze for a long moment. He huffs out a half laugh and reaches out to squeeze Merlin’s upper arm. “You’re welcome,” he manages to say at last. “That’s what mates are for.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Shut your eyes, Arthur, I’ve got a surprise for you!” The dark shadows beneath Merlin’s eyes still will not go away. But there’s a nervous excitement in his voice and a kind of eagerness to his expression that Arthur finds himself helplessly endeared by.

“All right,” he growls, closing his eyes, trying to ignore the oppressive sense of anticipation that makes his stomach do flip-flops. “Hit me with it.” 

“Okay, you can open your eyes now!” Merlin sounds altogether too excited as he thrusts something cool and oblong into his hands.

Arthur knows what it is without looking. And he should be happy about it, really he should. But he has a sinking feeling, because he knows what this all means.

It’s _The Dragon Rises_ , the hardback print sequel to Merlin’s highly successful debut fantasy novel, _The Dragon Wakes_. The cover is smooth, with the golden lines of a dragon’s scales embossed upon it as it. Where the first book had the dragon snoozing like Smaug upon his hoard, the dragon in the sequel is launching itself into the air, wings outstretched as if about to take on the world.

“Elena has done an amazing job with the illustrations, hasn’t she?” says Merlin, unaware of the ice that is clawing at Arthur’s chest.

“Oh, very nice. I’m happy for you,” says Arthur, flatly, meaning exactly the opposite.

Well, not exactly the opposite, because he knows that Merlin has been waiting for a long time for this moment, and he’s clearly over the moon about it – flashing that dancing-eyed smile around like there’s no tomorrow. But the simple fact of the matter is that now that Merlin’s sequel has been printed, no doubt it will fly off the shelves thanks to his army of loyal fellow hobbits, and Merlin will not need to share a flat with a morose, uptight corporate hospitality executive any more. And no matter how long Arthur has been bracing himself for this moment, Merlin has infiltrated his way into Arthur’s previously stony heart with kindness and altogether too much understanding, so that now the moment has come, Arthur can’t help feeling resentful. Why does Merlin have to be so bloody nice?

Well, it’s time it stopped. Arthur has to protect himself.

“They’ve printed ten thousand hardback copies,” says Merlin proudly. He still doesn’t seem to have noticed Arthur’s abrupt change of mood.

“Whoop-de-doo for them!”

“They’ve nearly all pre-sold. They’re already planning the next print run.” Merlin grins his most infectious grin. “I’ll be able to put down a deposit on a flat.”

“How fascinating.” A deposit? So this is it, then. Just as he thought. The beginning of the end. It’s all Arthur can do to disguise the shiver that sends a chill racing down his spine as a grimace.

“This one is for you. I signed it, on the inside cover.”

“Just what I’ve always wanted.” Arthur deliberately doesn’t look, and puts the book down on the coffee table instead.

“Shall we celebrate?” Merlin, procures a bottle of champagne from behind his back.

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m going out.”

Merlin’s face falls. “But Gwen and Elena are coming round, and Lance is bringing his Fifa 18 game, I thought you could—”

“Nope. Going out.” To emphasise his words, Arthur pulls on his hoodie. “Might be a while. Don’t wait up.” He heads towards the hallway where his trainers are.

“What the hell’s got into you? I can’t believe you, sometimes.” Merlin follows him. “You can’t just congratulate me, like normal people, can you?”

And this is a bit rich. After all, Arthur isn’t the one who is going to use his earnings to run away from everything they’ve managed to create together.

“Congratulations on getting your mediocre children’s book published,” he manages to spit out. “I hope you and all your hobbits enjoy the fortune and glory. Just don’t expect me to join in.”

“What the hell is your problem?” Merlin gapes. His colour is rising now; Arthur’s needling has definitely got to him. “You arrogant toad! You can’t just let someone else be successful, is that it? It’s all got to be about you.”

That’s not the problem at all. But while part of Arthur is relieved that Merlin has latched onto a plausible motive for his churlishness, there’s another, bigger part, that can’t help resenting Merlins sudden about-turn, however much Arthur had deliberately goaded him into it.

“It’s so nice to know that you have such a high opinion of me.” Arthur sits on the bench by the front door to put on his trainers.

“Jesus, Arthur, this is not about you, you self-centred twat.” says Merlin. Twin spots of furious pink highlight his cheekbones. “There was me hoping to have a friend to share my moment with – now that Will is gone, you’re pretty much the closest friend that I’ve got. Or, at least, I thought you were.”

And that stings, in so many ways, just as it is designed to. Surely Merlin must know or at least guess by now that Arthur wants more than friendship from him? And, worse than that, how is it that Arthur can’t measure up to the oh-so-perfect Will even in death? Arthur frowns down at his trainers and concentrates on tying his laces as quickly as possible.

“Well, fuck you, Arthur,” Merlin carries on, not knowing or more likely not caring that he’s trampling all over the last vestiges of Arthur’s aching heart. “This is my moment and I’m going to enjoy it with or without you.”

“Good,” yells Arthur. “Have a good time! Just don’t expect me to clean up after you!”

Setting his mouth into a firm line to prevent himself from saying anything else, Arthur stands stiffly without meeting Merlin’s eyes and opens the door, dragging on his coat. He wanders aimlessly around for a bit then checks in at the local cinema to watch some inane shit that he hates, and gets back home late.

The flat is quiet but there’s a strip of light under the bathroom door and Arthur can hear the sound of someone retching their guts up. Ugh. Merlin the lightweight strikes again. Clearly he’s been over-doing the celebration. Serves him right, thinks Arthur, viciously. Hoping that Merlin doesn’t leave a mess in the loo, he slinks into his room with all the lights off and lies fully clothed on his bed.

Bloody Merlin. Worming his way into Arthur’s affections. He’ll be out of there before Arthur knows it, and then Arthur will be alone again. Well, good. It’s about time.

When Aithusa leaps up onto his bed and starts to knead his tummy, he doesn’t even turf her off. Her purring is soothing, and her little body is warm. He supposes that when Merlin goes, he will take her, as well.

Her fur is soft beneath his fingers and no-one can see his eyes leaking, nor hear the way that he berates himself.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um... sorry?

And finally it comes down to this. Merlin will move out at the end of the month. It’s not as if Arthur didn’t see it coming, but there’s not a damned thing that he can do about it. He sits at the long board room table, morosely turning his pen this way and that, and occasionally tapping on a note pad, while Morgana argues the toss with Cenred, who’s the chief negotiator from a large multinational luxury hotel chain. The table has twelve chairs, only three of which are currently occupied. Two walls have been replaced with floor-to-ceiling windows, with panoramas over the tall, gleaming buildings of the city, which Merlin refers to as a backdrop of capitalism and naked greed. A third wall sports a huge video-conferencing screen, currently showing a video of a luxury resort in Mexico. Twelve immaculately clean glasses and a solitary bottle of fizzy water adorn the centre of the table. Merlin hates fizzy water. He refers to it as the devil's vomit, and pulls sour faces at it that make Arthur laugh.

“Our clients are high net worth individuals.” Morgana blinks slowly in that way she has, and lifts her chin. It makes her look like a cat who has made judgment on the unpleasant-looking mouse in front of her, and found it wanting. “They require a certain level of high-end local culture in the customization of their travel experiences. I don’t know that your chain can offer them that.”

“On the contrary, every one of our properties has a unique value proposition,” protests Cenred. “Here, the video shows you the sumptuous decor of our resort in Playa del Carmen.” Despite his outwardly cool demeanor, the way that his leg jiggles under the table betrays an increasing sense of agitation. Morgana has him on the ropes, and he knows it.

“Oh, please,” scoffs Morgana with another lazy flip of her immaculately mascara-ed eyelashes. “A few fake Mayan artefacts and a Mariachi band won’t fool the sort of discerning traveller that we act for.”

The fact is that Morgana has already made her decision - and she is merely playing with Cenred in the manner of a cat before she pounces upon her prey. Arthur zones them out and goes back to fretting about Merlin’s imminent departure while he stares unseeingly at the latest football scores on his laptop (which is angled away from the others, naturally).

Things have been so tense in the household of late that he might even be relieved when Merlin finally goes. Merlin’s mouth seems permanently set to sourly downturned, and he has grown if anything even paler and more skinny. He doesn’t eat with Arthur at all, any more. Not that Arthur has offered. No matter how much he misses their cosy take-away nights, he cannot allow himself to get sentimental. Merlin will move out soon, so Arthur has to get used to eating by himself. 

When his laptop is slammed closed with a bang, narrowly missing his fingers, Arthur jumps out of his skin.

“What?” He looks around. “Hey. Where did the slimeball go?”

“I got rid of him,” says Morgana, abruptly, in the kind of tones that make Arthur wonder for a second if she’s actually bumped him off. “And I’ll get rid of you, too, if you don’t start pulling your weight. Ever since Merlin handed in his notice, you’ve been as much use as a tampax machine in the Vatican.”

Arthur doesn’t even bother to deny it.

“The pair of you are entirely ridiculous and stubborn and I’d like nothing more than to bang your stupid heads together, but I don’t have time right now, what with having to do your job on top of my own. Now sort it out, before I decide to sack you and hire someone else.”

“But you can’t—”

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way, little brother.” Gathering brochures and files into her arms, she sweeps out of the room, leaving a whiff of Chanel in her wake.

*

When Arthur finally extends an olive branch, it’s not really because of Morgana’s ultimatum, but rather because he has realised that Merlin’s leaving in two weeks, and he does not want their parting to be on a bitter note. Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself.

Merlin is in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, trousers hanging off his hips as usual.

“Merlin?” Arthur enters quietly with what he hopes is a conciliatory tone of voice. “I… Um. Well.”

“Arthur?” Merlin turns. He’s holding a hand to his stomach, there are dark circles under his eyes and his cheekbones look sunken.

Suddenly concerned, Arthur reaches out to touch his arm. “Are you feeling ok? You look like death warmed up.”

Normally this would be an oblique invitation to engage in some playful mutual insults, but evidently things have been too strained between them recently for their usual banter, because Merlin just blinks at him, and shrugs. “Just a bit of tummy ache, that’s all. Think I’ve picked up a bug. What’s up?”

“I - um, well, it’s our last match of the season tomorrow,” says Arthur, looking up at the ceiling. “And I wondered if you’d like to come with… um.” He looks down at the floor. “You know, we’ll all go out afterwards and have a couple of beers. I’ll...um...  I’ll buy you a pint.” Head still downturned, he peeps up at Merlin from between his lashes.

Merlin’s eyes are going all soft and his mouth twists up on one side as he nods. “Oh! Er… yeah. That sounds… yeah. I’d love to, Arthur. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Good.” Arthur nods and smiles back. “That’s good. Great, I mean. Really good. Nice. Glad you can make it.” It’s ridiculous how Merlin’s mere affirmative can make his heart soar like this, but really it’s the first pleasant exchange that they’ve had for weeks now and Arthur feels like hugging someone. So, he harrumphs instead and turns his back to fill the kettle and restore his equilibrium. “Good,” he says again.

But the next day, when Arthur knocks on Merlin’s door, Merlin’s still in bed.

“Aren’t you coming?” Arthur works hard to hide the disappointment. “Oh, well. That’s good, I suppose it would have been boring for you anyway.”

“It’s not that, Arthur,” says Merlin, faintly. Come to think of it, his cheeks are a bit pink, as if he’s running a temperature. His forehead has a sheen of sweat and he seems to be breathing hard, even though he’s in bed. “I’m not feeling too hot, actually. Tummy’s still very sore. Feeling a bit sick. Virus, I expect. I’m sure I’ll be fine tomorrow, bad timing that’s all.”

A sudden dart of concern spears Arthur’s gut. Merlin looks terrible. But Arthur’s damned if he’s going to let Merlin’s appalling diet and sense of timing ruin the final game of the season. Trust Merlin to wait until now to get a stomach bug.

"Yeah, well, don't give it to me, mate." Arthur hates getting sick. He backs out of Merlin's bedroom, taking care not to touch anything. He can’t help the way that anger bubbles up in his gut at the sheer injustice of it all. He’s still angry when he gets to the football pitches. Lance, Percival and Elyan are already there, warming up.

“No Merlin?” says Percival, never one to use ten words when one will do.

“Nah. The idiot picked up a stomach bug, somewhere,” says Arthur, hoping not to have to talk about it, because he can feel disquiet churning in his gut when he thinks about Merlin’s pale face, and come to think of it, Merlin’s been looking a bit pasty for a while, now. Probably since Will died.

But he tamps down his concern. It’s the last match of the season! “I reckon he’s faking it because he hates footie and wants to sabotage our last match.”

Percival laughs and starts some stretches.

But Lance frowns and catches Arthur’s arm. “Are you sure Merlin’s okay?” he says quietly. “He’s been talking about a stomach pain for a few days now. But it’s not like him to miss this unless he’s really ill. I know things have been strained between you, and he was desperate to fix that.” 

“If you’re that worried about him, why don’t you go and check?” says Arthur. Annoyed, he shakes off Lance’s arm and hurries to join the others.

Luckily, he’s able to channel his anger into aggression on the field. They win the match three - two. Arthur scores a hat-trick, which means he has to buy everyone a round. Squashing down the part of him that is still sore that Merlin wasn’t there to see it, he heads off with the rest of the team to the pub after they’ve showered.

He’s just getting the second round in when Lance sidles up to his elbow, propping up the bar next to him.

“Aren’t you going to go and see if Merlin is okay?” says Lance, quietly.

“I’m his flat mate, not his mum,” objects Arthur. “Jesus, can’t I celebrate our victory in peace?”

“We all know you mean a lot more to each other than that,” says Lance. “Gwen’s been trying to call him all day. He’s not answering. Of course she’s going to be worried.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Rolling his eyes, Arthur slides a twenty quid note across to the barman. “Look, I’m only having a couple of pints, okay? He probably had his head down the toilet or something when she called. No-one wants an audience for that, right? I’ll look in on him when I get home. Okay?” Pocketing the change, he fishes out his wallet and sticks a fiver back into it.

Lance still looks worried. “I’ll come with you.”

“If you want.” Still not sure why he finds this interrogation so bloody irritating, Arthur snorts as he puts his wallet in his pocket so that he has both hands free to pick up three brimming pints. “Merlin will be fine,”  he says. “He’s probably just watching some soppy movie or another. We’ll get home, and he’ll be sitting on the sofa sipping that disgusting milk-free girl-grey tea that he likes. You’ll see.”

“No, I think we should go now, while we’re both sober enough to drive,” says Lance. “If he’s fine, I’ll buy the next round.”

Arthur tries to object, but when he’s got a bee in his bonnet like this, Lance is like the original immoveable force. Probably something to do with Gwen nagging him every five minutes by text.

*

But Merlin isn’t sitting on the sofa when they get in. The flat is in darkness, and there’s no answer when Arthur calls his name.

“Merlin?” Arthur dumps his stuff on the floor and flicks on the light. “You can stop pretending you’re ill now. The football is over; it’s safe to come out.”

When there’s still no reply, he and Lance exchange a look, and a flutter of worry worms its way into Arthur’s heart as he knocks on the door to Merlin’s bedroom. “Merlin?”

“Are you okay, mate?” offers Lance as he turns the door handle. “Are you decent? Can we come in?”

There’s a small sound, a sort of breathless exhale that’s half way between a whimper and a moan. Merlin’s lying on his side, beneath the covers, his face clammy and covered with a sheen of sweat. An acrid smell makes Arthur want to gag; there’s a bucket next to the bed, and the smell comes from its contents.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake Merlin,” says Arthur. “What the hell have you been eating?”

“Jesus,” says Lance. “He’s sick, Arthur, can’t you see?” He steps into the room like the bloody martyr that he is. “Have you kept anything down recently, Merlin?”

When he touches Merlin’s forehead, Arthur is hit by a sudden irrational urge to strike his hand away. Where did that come from?

“He’s burning up!” Lance looks up at Arthur, an accusing tone in his voice that Arthur resents, because it's not his fault Merlin is sick! “His temperature is off the scale.”

“It’s just a tummy bug, I don’t see why he has to be such a girl about it.” Arthur covers his nose with his scarf. He bloody hates everything about this situation - the smell, the guilt that makes his throat close, the memories of his mother’s final illness, all of it just makes him want to run. Panic seeps into his pores, making his hands clam up. “He’ll be fine in the morning. Just let him sleep it off.”

Merlin makes that horrible sort of breathless gurgling noise again. His eyes squeeze shut, and he breathes long and low.

“It hurts so much,” he whispers. “I’m scared.”

“Where does it hurt, Merlin?” Lance crouches by the bed. Brave man. Arthur hovers near the door, breathing through his mouth to avoid that disgusting smell.

Merlin’s hand flutters across his abdomen.

“Here?” Lance presses on a spot just to the right of Merlin’s navel. With a hoarse cry, Merlin doubles over reflexively. “Shit.” Lance’s eyes are round and dark as he straightens and looks directly at Arthur. “How long has he been like this?”

“I don’t know - all day, I think?” Arthur’s heart is beating too loudly. He wills it to calm down. He can’t think. “Maybe a little longer?”

“I think we’d better take him to the hospital," says Lance, calmly.

“What?” Arthur freezes. Terror makes his legs turn to water. He starts to tremble from the anxiety that floods through his veins and chases away any remnant of his earlier pint. “No, it’s just a virus, surely? Anyway, it’s Saturday night, he’ll never get seen...”

But Lance is ignoring him. “Do you think you can stand, Merlin?”

“Not the hospital, please.” Merlin shakes his head, wincing at the movement. He shudders, and his breath is coming fast and shallow. He doubles over, holding his gut as if it will fall out if he stops. “Please, not that! I'm fine, it's just sore!”

“Surely it’s just…” Arthur begins weakly, not even believing it himself any more. “It’s not even serious.”

“For fuck’s sake, Arthur,” yells the normally mild-mannered Lance as he jabs numbers into his phone. “Will you bloody well get over yourself and do something useful, like pack his overnight bag! Ah, yes - Ambulance, please. Yes, Wapping High Street... ” He stalks out of the room, talking into his phone.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice is hoarse and rasping. “Arthur? Don’t make me go on my own, please. Come with me. Please?”

“I can’t.” Swallowing, Arthur bites his lip. “I’ve got… I… look, I just… I’ll get you a suitcase.”

Cursing himself as a coward, he flees.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end for warnings

By the time the ambulance arrives, Gwen has arrived and is holding Merlin’s hand while he drifts in and out of consciousness. Something is seriously wrong. The paramedics cluck and make soothing noises as they hook Merlin up to a saline drip and mutter scary words.

As soon as the needles appear, Arthur backs away into the kitchen, telling himself that it’s better if he keeps out of the way. It won’t help anyone to have someone fainting all over the place. Through the door, he can still hear the exchange of instructions and questions and scary long words, so he puts on his headphones and bustles round the kitchen, feeding Aithusa and emptying her dirt box for something to do.

“Arthur?” Gwen has poked her head round the door. “Arthur. Will you be all right? We’re going with him.”

When he looks up, he can see Merlin, just through the gap in the door, only a couple of metres away. The paramedic moves away, leaving him with a view of Merlin’s pale face, of the blue NHS blanket that covers Merlin’s body.

Merlin’s eyelids are closed, and his mouth obscured by an oxygen mask. A drip is attached to the back of his hand. Dark smudges draw blurry blue-black lines under his eyes. Then there’s a word from someone he can’t see, and the stretcher starts to move. Arthur closes his eyes, forgetting to breathe for a minute.

“Arthur?”

“Me?” Opening his eyes, Arthur chuckles mirthlessly. “I’m fine. You go with him if you like, but he will be right as rain in the morning. He always is!”

“It’s suspected appendicitis, Arthur.” With a sympathetic tilt to her head and worried half smile, Gwen manages to convey the message that Arthur isn’t kidding anyone. “If they’re right, even Merlin won’t be able to walk away from that.”

“Jesus. Are they sure?”

“No, that’s why it’s just suspected at this point. But he’s really sick, Arthur.”

There’s a heavy weight pressing down on him when she turns to leave. Later on, as lies awake with his throat tight and his chest aching in regret, Arthur manages to convince himself that Merlin will be back in the morning, when they can both have a good laugh over Arthur’s pathetic fear of hospitals. He drifts off eventually, mind echoing with painful medical terms that he wishes he could forget forever.

But the next day, the flat is still empty.

Arthur takes his time over making tea but there’s still no message or sound of a key in the door. So he takes a couple of deep breaths and talks stern words to himself before picking the plastic gloves and bucket out of the cupboard below the sink, adding hot water and disinfectant. Earphones in, he cleans up the disgusting mess Merlin’s room, trying not to breathe through his nose.

A vision pops into his head, unbidden, of Merlin pale as death with that horrible blue blanket drawn up to his chin, and his eyes blur for a moment. God. His hands fumble as he picks up Merlin’s soiled clothes and drops them into the dirty linen basket. They’re trembling, and his whole body begins to judder. The smell… disinfectant and something more acrid, a taint of sickness… it takes him straight back, and suddenly it’s his mum’s face that he’s gazing down at, as helpless now as he had been then.

“Come on, Arthur,” he mutters to himself.

Swallowing, he takes a breath or two through his mouth before lifting the clothes and stalking out to the washing machine, closing the door on the foul stench and using quick decisive movements to set the machine going, to push out the fear that stalks him, whispering over his shoulder.

He rips off the yellow rubber gloves and tosses them into the sink, running the hot tap with plenty of detergent, and goes off to make Merlin’s bed up with clean sheets. He puts Hobbes on the pillow. Aithusa pushes the door open and jumps up onto the bed, sitting next to Hobbes and grooming her paws.Arthur sits down on the bed next to her. Merlin’s phone lies by the bedside, with an empty dragon mug with a tea stain in the bottom, and his coin wallet. Damn, Arthur forgot to pack those. Behind them all stands Merlin’s outdated sound system. 

Assaulted by an impulse, he presses play. Joni Mitchell starts to sing.

As if summoned, at the same time, his phone starts to buzz. He fumbles in his pocket and stares at the screen.

_He’s in ICU. Suspected peritonitis. They won’t let us in. I’ve got to go home now. I’m so sorry Arthur._

Peritonitis? Arthur’s head and heart drum out a terrible counter-rhythm to his fingertips as he texts her back.

_Isn’t that serious? He’ll be okay though, won’t he?_

Impatiently, he stares at the three dots on his screen that show she is composing a reply. It takes forever, as if she is writing a full blown essay. Surely it shouldn’t take that long to type out a simple “yes”?

In the end, the reply is short and he knows she has deleted a lot of other things.

_They don’t know. Please can you tell his mum?_

“Shit,” he says out loud, heart thudding,before keying in his reply.

_I can do that_

Joni is still singing.

_Don’t it always seem to go? You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone._

He kills the sound system with an abrupt thumb and stares at the photograph of Merlin’s mum on his bedside table. He picks it up, and bites his lip. He knows what he has to do. He thumbs the name with uncharacteristic clumsiness.

“Hunith?”

“Arthur, love? It’s awfully early. Is everything all right?”

“Um. No, not exactly.” Jesus. This is hard. He breathes in through his nose, and exhales sharply to regain his focus. “I’m so sorry, Hunith, but Merlin has been taken ill. He’s in hospital with appendicitis… and it’s got worse. Maybe peritonitis. He’s very sick, Hunith.”

There. He’s got the word out. He’s able to tell her what the problem is, calmly and methodically, and his voice only trembled the tiniest amount on the word sick. He hasn’t evaporated or turned into a gibbering wreck, not just yet.

They talk for a while, but it will take her at least four hours to get to London, even in good traffic.

“Please don’t let him be alone, Arthur,” she says, her voice trembling. “Promise me. I know you won’t let me down.”

Tamping down the panic that flutters up in his chest at the thought of stepping through the hospital door, Arthur pictures the sorrowful set of her eyes, so expressive, those eyes. So like Merlin’s. So beloved. And a whole number of things come crashing down around his ears at once.

“I promise,” he says firmly.  

But when he ends the call, he has no idea how he’s going to manage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: description of medical apparatus and illness.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m so hard to handle. I’m selfish, and I’m sad. And now I’ve gone and lost the best baby that I ever had. Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on. I wish I had a river so long, I could teach my feet to fly.”_
> 
> ~"River," Joni Mitchell

Taking a few deep breaths, Arthur clutches the bag that contains Merlin’s wallet, his phone, and one or two other critical items to his chest and wills his heart to stop this ridiculous ping pong act. He can do hospitals. Millions of people work in them. It is routine, for them. He just needs to put one foot in front of the other, that’s all.

“Arthur?”

God bless Gwen for coming with him. She’s always had that talent for soothing the excitable emotions of the people around her. No wonder Lance is completely besotted with her.

“Are you going to be all right?” She worries her bottom lip with her teeth.

Arthur nods. “I’m fine,” he says firmly. “You’ve got clients who need you more than I do. You go.” Just one foot in front of the other. Left, then right. Simple.

Jaw tensing as he steps into the lift with someone dressed in scrubs and listens to the tap-tap of his shoes on the shiny corridor floor, he tells himself he can do this. For Merlin. Merlin is worth it. Merlin is worth everything.

But Merlin has been taken down to theatre for emergency surgery. When he comes out, he will be in intensive care, and Arthur won’t be allowed in because he’ll have been in surgery and will be in an induced coma, whatever that means. And no, Hobbes can’t go in, because of infection control.

Everything has gone to shit. Still clutching Hobbes in one hand and Merlin’s bag in the other, he sits on the plastic chair outside ICU and swallows the bitter regrets that haunt him.

After a couple of hours, he eats the vegan chocolates. They’re surprisingly nice. It’s not like Merlin will be able to have them for a while anyway. Apparently he is being fed by a drip at the moment, and it would be a shame to let the chocolates turn to mush and dribble all over Merlin’s battered old copy of the book “Call Me By Your Name”.

He leafs through the book, but finds it too angstful for his current mood, so he rests his eyes for a moment. And that’s where Hunith finds him, five hours later. A warm hand on his upper arm is his only warning.

“Thank you for being here, dear,” she says. She looks exhausted.

“They won’t let me in to see him,” he says forlornly, and exhaustion pricks at his eyes, making them smart. “He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

She smiles sympathetically at him. “But I do, you numpty. And it means a lot to me.”

Since his mum died, hugging has not been Arthur’s strong point; he normally delegates demonstrations of affection to Hobbes. Yet, strangely enough, hugging is what he finds himself doing for the next five minutes or so, even as he clutches Hobbes in one hand, so that Hobbes bobs around over Hunith's right shoulder. After a while, Hunith fishes out a couple of tissues from her handbag and dabs at her eyes with one of them, passing the other one to Arthur without comment. 

“Thank you, dear,” she says, eventually. “I needed that.”

“I… um.” Arthur lets out a mirthless chuckle before blowing his nose noisily on another hastily procured tissue. “To be honest, so did I. But don’t ever tell Morgana that, or I’ll never live it down.”

“Oh, Arthur,” she says, with a lopsided, watery smile. “It’s all right to need a hug from time to time. You silly sausage.”

Arthur is beginning to understand where Merlin gets his talent for creative insults from. 

 

*

No matter how many times he goes into Merlin’s room and rearranges the blankets on Merlin’s bed, the place remains firmly empty. All the apologies that are stacked up behind Arthur’s lips are useless without the person that he needs to express them to. So they just sit there, in some sort of a painful mental holding pattern, swirling around in his head instead of doing anything useful.

He’s done all the practical things that he can to help everyone through this crisis: finding a comfortable hotel near the hospital for Hunith to stay in, ensuring that she has access to a decent taxi service, sitting with her in the hospital canteen while she pokes at a bit of salad with her fork... Logistics are what he is good at. But when it comes to the support that matters - the emotional help, and the words of wisdom that get people through serious illness, he’s woefully ill-equipped. A bit of desultory back-patting is about the best that he can do.

Hunith on the other hand… she has an incredible way of stating painful truths in a brisk, no-nonsense tone. It’s the voice that mums use when something bad has happened. That efficient, rip-the-plaster-off way of delivering horrible news reminds him so much of his own mother sometimes that he can hardly breathe. How do they do it, these empathetic people who somehow know how to put things into words? How do they bear it when their loved ones are ill? How do they find room in their hearts to be kind when they must be hurting so much?

“Everything’s going to be fine, Arthur,” Hunith is saying now, her voice tinny and distant over the phone. For once, things really do seem to be looking up. “Although he’s still in an induced coma, Merlin’s blood pressure has stabilized, and they’re weaning him off the ventilator. You will be able to come in and see him soon.”

“So, will he make a full recovery, then?” says Arthur, hope blossoming for the billionth time.

Hunith’s breath gusts out, making her phone crackle. “I don’t know, love. Only time will tell”

“If I hear another person say ‘wait and see’, I think I might actually explode.” Frustration shatters the hope again.

“I wouldn’t, pet, that would make a right mess.” She lets out a tired laugh. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Arthur.”

“Okay. I’ll pop in to the ward at two. Thanks for calling, Hunith.”

“Thanks, love. It’s always such a comfort to talk to you, you know.”

Once again, Arthur’s pretty sure that actually he’s the one who is being comforted, but he’s too grateful to say so.

*

When you are a C-suite executive in a small-ish company, you don't get to have the luxury of time off to look after your sick friend. There are clients to excite, investors to report to, and of course employees who are looking to you for leadership and guidance.

"Pay attention, Arthur," says Morgana.

Ah, yes. Employees. Some pesky. And sisters. All pesky. Whoever's idea it was to have a significant overlap on the employee-sister Venn diagram of Arthur's professional life was a scoundrel and, in all probability, a sadist to boot.

"Cenred says a small but vociferous local minority still opposes the construction project for their proposed hotel in Tanzania," she's saying. "Something about the location being important to the local indigenous population. I forget the details."

"This is the one where they're attempting to create infrastructure around the national park?" God knows that Tanzania needs infrastructure investment, but Arthur is conflicted about the proposed site. "Do we know which people are impacted? What are their specific objections?"

"Does it matter?" Morgana shrugs. "With our support, I am sure that Cenred can secure the correct governmental permissions. Cenred has asked for our endorsement. Shall I go ahead and sign?"

 _They pave paradise, put up a parking lot._ Joni Mitchell sings in his head.

"Arthur!" hisses Morgana. Her eyes have taken on that narrow, appraising slant that means she is about to say something he doesn't want to hear. They're sitting in his office, around the small meeting table that has an old-fashioned and never-used phone in the middle, superseded as it now is by the videoconferencing facility that occupies one of the walls. His weekly catchup with her is an informal meeting - no agenda, just an opportunity to vent - and until recently has been one of the most productive discussions of his working week. "I swear to God that if your brain does not re-enter the room this minute I will get you sacked on the spot."

Tearing his eyes away from the fascinating rivulets of rainwater that are currently cascading down the glass outside, Arthur swivels his head, forcing himself to meet Morgana's eyes. "Do you ever wonder if we're doing the right thing, Morgana?"

"Of course not." Morgana rolls her eyes and leans back on her chair, tapping her teeth with the non-nib end of her pen. "The figures speak for themselves. Investor confidence has never been higher..."

Arthur's already shaking his head before she can finish speaking. "Not that. I mean... I mean, ethically. Morally. Who stands to benefit from this project?"

"There is no morality in business, Arthur," says Morgana. "Only return on capital invested. Besides which, in the long term the investment will bring jobs and prosperity to the region. It's a win-win."

"But..."

"But, what, dear brother?"

Arthur has an ergonomically designed office chair. When he presses one button it automatically shifts to the correct height. Another provides the required support for his lumbar spine. And yet, he can't seem to get comfortable in it, not any more, because whenever he stares at a blank screen, or sheet of paper, or even just the smooth mahogany of his desk, all he can see with his mind's eye are a pair of scared, pleading eyes, blue clouded with pain.

"Nothing," he says.

Morgana trains narrowed eyes upon him. They bore into him in that devastating way she has of seeing into his soul.

“I’m sorry Merlin is sick, dear brother,” she says. “I think, perhaps, you should take some time off. Your body is in the office, but I don’t think your heart or your brain are.”

Time off? That's the last thing he wants. Work is a welcome distraction from the daily drudgery of visiting hours and the unbearable tension of watching life support machines monitoring Merlin's vital signs. But he even so, he has to acknowledge the truth of what she is saying.


	10. Chapter 10

_All romantics meet the same fate, some day. Cynical and drunk, and boring someone in some dark café._

 ~The last time I saw Richard, Joni Mitchell.

 

*

 

Arthur has psyched himself up to make it onto the ward five times, now, but each time he has been turned away because Merlin is too sick to see anyone except close family. And each time, Arthur is not sure whether to be angry or terrified or grateful that he can’t step over the threshold. But now… now

“Ah, Mr Pendragon!” The staff nurse on duty, Alice, smiles. “You can go in!”

“Great!” This is it. With a forced smile, Arthur pauses on the threshold for a moment.

Taking a deep breath, he lets it out as slowly as he can, trying to calm the rapid thud of his pulse, and pushes the door handle down.

The sights and sounds are horrifyingly familiar: the steady beep-beep of the heart monitor, and regular jagged trace that shows its rhythm are bad enough. But oddly enough, it is the livid bruising around the cannula on the back of Merlin’s hand that nearly has him fleeing back out through the door. He closes his eyes for a moment against the sight of all the tubes and ventilators, of Merlin’s pale, unresponsive face, his eyelids so dainty and blue-veined, the thin line of his lashes forming a dark arc against his cheek. When he opens them again he focuses instead on the steady rise and fall of Merlin’s chest.

“Merlin, it’s me, Arthur. Merlin, I...” he says, voice tailing off. For want of something to do, he picks up the notes at the end of Merlin’s bed. They don’t mean anything to him.

“Do sit down.” Alice has followed him in. “Luckily, Merlin is responding well to the antibiotics. Appendicitis is bad enough, but his appendix ruptured and peritonitis is very serious, Arthur. Luckily, Merlin is young and healthy, and we think we have caught it in time. The infection doesn’t seem to have damaged any of his other organs. It can, you know... His operation scar is healing up okay. He is not awake yet, but we’re gradually weaning him off the coma-inducing drugs.” Alice gently takes the notes off him, replacing them upon the rail. “He may respond to a familiar voice. Please feel free to talk to him. Don’t mind me, I’ll pop out and give you some privacy.”

“Thank you.” Feeling far from grateful, Arthur sits gingerly in the NHS regulation orange plastic visitor chair at Merlin’s bedside, and wishes himself a million miles away. “Um. Anyway. Um. Hi, Merlin. The flat’s awfully quiet without you. No-one’s broken anything for literally days.”

The heart monitor beeps steadily and the computer screen shows a steady stream of regular peaks and troughs, a proper mountain range. Arthur stares at it, terrified that it will suddenly go flat, that the rugged terrain of Merlin’s life force will be reduced to a dim line and then a single bright dot while he watches, powerless to change anything.

Talk to him, the nurse had said. He may respond to a familiar voice. Arthur clears his throat, wondering what to say. “I’ve started reading your book. The second one. I read what you put inside the front cover, and I am not, whatever you might say, a clotpole with a stick up his arse.”

So much for a familiar voice. The way Arthur’s is quavering, it’s not familiar even to himself.

“Come back soon, Merlin,” he whispers. “I hate it when you’re not there.”

Merlin doesn’t answer.

 

*

 

The days start to blur, after a while. Arthur's tension if anything increases every time he steps through the hospital door, but gradually with time the tubes and electrodes start to disappear. The cannula is still there, but the nurses’ expressions become less grave, especially when he brings them chocolates.

It’s probably been a whole week, give or take a few hours, when while he is changing Aithusa’s litter tray a beep alerts him to the incoming message from Hunith that he’s been waiting for.

_Merlin has woken up. He’s asking for you!_

He stares at it, listening to the sudden bump of his heart for a moment or two while he tries to parse out its meaning. Incredulous, he punches out a reply.

_I’m on my way._

He’s pretty sure he breaks a couple of speed limits en route but he doesn’t care. A strange little laugh bubbles up in his chest. _Look at you, Arthur Pendragon, with your hospital phobia,_ he mutters to himself. _Racing to the hospital as if it’s become a sort of second home!_

“We moved him,” Alice says, smiling up at him from the paperwork that she’s annotating. “He’s doing really well, now. He’ll be delighted to see you.”

Something oddly akin to happiness puts a spring in his step as he smiles back and heads into an open bay, surrounded by a curtain rail. The curtains are pulled back and Merlin’s by the window, with Hunith by his side, her knitting needles flashing in the sunshine.

“Arthur!” She smiles at him. The worry lines on her forehead are smoother, somehow.

“How is he?” says Arthur, standing at the foot of the bed with his hands in his pockets.

“Much better.” She smoothes a curl away from Merlin’s forehead. “Now you’re here, I might pop out and get a coffee, love. Do you want anything?”

“Cappuccino would be great, thanks.”

Merlin’s eyes are closed. He looks fragile and thin, far too thin. But there does seem to be a bit more colour in his cheeks. Arthur sits with him for a while, watching his chest rise and fall.

“I fucked up, Merlin,” Arthur says out loud.

Miracle of miracles, Merlin’s eyes flutter open.

“Arthur,” he whispers.

The sound of Merlin’s voice after so many days makes Arthur’s eyes sting. A broad grin breaks out across his face. When Merlin smiles weakly back, a distant part of Arthur bursts into song.

“Merlin! How are you feeling, mate?”

“Like shit,” replies Merlin, mouth twitching wryly up on one side. “But alive.”

“Small mercies.” Arthur huffs out an awkward sort of half laugh at that. “Sorry you’ve been so ill, mate. The flat has been…” his voice tails off and he looks out of the window to the grey street below instead. “Quiet. Horribly quiet, to be honest. I do hope you will be back, soon. Aithusa is quite sick of my company.”

“You haven’t replaced me yet, then?”

“I could never replace you.” Taken by surprise by his own sincerity, Arthur harrumphs and looks at the ceiling. There are water stains on one of the ceiling tiles. This hospital, like most of the NHS estate, could do with a bit of tender loving care. They blur while he stares at them.

“Merlin…" he says, now. "I… I, um. Look, I didn’t mean to, but I fucked up. I… I should have been there for you and I’m sorry.”

“You’re here now,” says Merlin, hoarsely. “That’s what matters. Clotpole.”

The force of that simple word, clotpole, hits Arthur like a ton of Merlin-shaped bricks. For a moment, stunned, he can’t speak, and just stares at Merlin instead. Eventually, he clears his throat and looks away for a moment, marshalling the recalcitrant troops of his feelings into some sort of appropriate formation before he dares to express them out loud. 

“Look, Merlin, I, um... I missed you, and… that fact is that I’d love you to stay....” He tails off, and stares out of the window for inspiration. On the ledge, a pair of pigeons bobs and coos at each other outside. Pigeons don’t seem to have all this trouble expressing how they feel about each other. Suddenly, it all seems so simple. Stroking his hand along the bare skin of Merlin’s exposed forearm, Arthur smiles down at him and draws breath to speak again.

But Merlin’s eyelids have drooped again and his mouth has slackened.

So, instead of speaking, Arthur just sits on the chair with his hand on the cool skin of Merlin’s wrist, watching the slow movement of Merlin’s chest until Hunith returns with the coffee.

 

*

 

 

Arthur has grown rather fond of the hobbits. All right, so one of them is dating one of his footballing friends, and one of them is his half sister, and another is his half sister’s girlfriend, so in a way they are bound to become close. But the fact is that Merlin’s D & D group share with him one very important characteristic; namely, that they would move heaven and earth to ensure that Merlin gets better. He’s never really going to get the whole D & D aspect of things, but they’re never really going to get football either, so he supposes that evens things out.

Whatever the reason, they have become regular participants in the sad life of the Merlinless Arthur since Merlin was admitted to hospital. He suspects Hunith has something to do with the way that they have clubbed together to keep an eye on him, but he’s not ungrateful. For one thing, instead of sitting staring morosely at his TV screen in his empty flat with only Aithusa for company, from time to time he finds himself in a booth in the basement of Café Noir, an old-fashioned coffee house in the heart of Soho, surrounded by beautiful though unobtainable women. Not that he would want to obtain any of them. Not while his heart resides elsewhere – namely, on a surgical ward in the Royal London Hospital.

However, he’s not sure how he came to be spilling his heart out to Gwen. It must be something in the coffee. Maybe Luigi laces his cappuccino with a truth potion, or something. That might explain things.

“I realise I behaved like a pig when he got the books printed, but I had no idea he was so ill, you know.” He twirls the cup around on its saucer, sticks his spoon in the froth, and scoops a dollop of it into his mouth. “I feel terrible about it. I mean, I felt overwhelmingly awful when it looked like… you know. But now, he’s so much better, and yet, I still feel…” He sighs.

Gwen tilts her head on one side, pulling her mouth up in that sympathetic half smile she has, the one that drags secrets from people. No wonder she’s such a successful counsellor. “Have you tried apologising? It might make you feel better.”

“Not specifically,” says Arthur. “I mean, I might have said a generic sorry at some point. But maybe… maybe I want him to know the real reason why… and, oh. God, Gwen. I’m sorry. You must get fed up of people talking to you about their problems. It’s your job after all.”

She laughs and lays a fond hand on his forearm. “Don’t be silly. I do it because I like helping people. The fact that I get paid is a bonus. Everyone’s job should be something that they love to do.”

“Lucky you,” he says. “I hate my job. But that’s no surprise, really. My co-workers are horrendous!”

“I heard that, little brother,” says Morgana pointing the blunt end of her fork at him before plunging it into her pistachio cake. “Don’t listen to him, Gwen. He loves his job, really. Ever since he was a child, he’s loved ordering people around, and this way he gets paid to do it.”

“Oh, and you don’t, Morgana, I suppose.” He sticks his tongue out at her, and she returns the gesture.

Everyone around the table laughs. Unfortunately, Elena laughs so hard that she dislodges her cutlery which falls, clattering, off the table, swiping her cake onto the floor with it. While Gwen and Freya crouch to retrieve it, with Elena squawking in distress at the loss of her carrot cake, Morgana turns to Arthur with that knowing smirk of hers.

“The real problem, dear brother,” she says in a soft voice, “is that you are arse over tit for Merlin and you don’t know how to tell him.”

He gapes at her, unable to deny it.

“Just… just talk to him,” she says. “I know you’re miserable. Talk to him, tell him what you feel.”

It’s all very well for her to say, but every time Arthur mulls it over in the silence of his empty flat, he comes up against the same roadblock. What if Merlin doesn’t feel the same way? What if by speaking out, Arthur just ruins everything?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Oh you are in my blood like holy wine_  
>  _You taste so bitter_  
>  _And so sweet oh_  
>  _I could drink a case of you darling_  
>  _Still I'd be on my feet_  
>  _I would still be on my feet_  
>   
>  ~“I could drink a case of you”, Joni Mitchell

Paralysed by conflicting thoughts, Arthur stews on his own indecision for nearly another whole week before something Merlin says triggers him to blurt it all out. In his defence, the ward has been too busy for a heart to heart. That they haven't had much chance to talk for a day or two. For a start off, Geoffrey, another patient in the bay opposite, has become firm friends with Merlin, and so have all his numerous grand-nieces and nephews. Arthur doesn't even know why this should surprise him. But Geoffrey has been discharged today, leaving in a flurry of unidentifiable (to Arthur) Disney princesses, and Merlin is now alone on the ward until another patient takes his place.

“I should be moving out of your flat, today.” Merlin is sitting up on his hospital bed, eating actual food. Ok, so it’s just a bit of dry, white toast, but Arthur couldn’t be more proud of him if it was a gourmet meal.

A sort of tray on wheels spans the bed in a great flat one-sided arch, and upon it sit a steaming cup of tea, a glass of water, and a plate bearing two small triangles of toast, one of which has a corner nibbled from it. It's Arthur's mission to see that all three items disappear into Merlin's mouth, and stay there. He approaches this mission, as he approaches all his projects, extremely seriously. 

“We’ve talked about this,” says Arthur, firmly. “Hobbes doesn’t want you to move out. Look.” Prompted by a vigorous movement of Arthur’s wrist, Hobbes nods his head. “See? What should Merlin do, Hobbes?” He holds the tiger to his ear, making sibilant noises that are meant to represent a whisper, before saying “He says you should stay. Permanently.” This is one of the differences between the current ward and the previous one; Hobbes is now allowed to stay overnight, as long as they take appropriate infection control precautions. No matter how much Morgana scoffs about it, Arthur loves the fact that Hobbes is looking after his friend when he can't be there.

Rolling his eyes, Merlin grabs at the pillow on his lap and hugs it to himself, while he lets out a half-hearted cough. A pained grimace scrunches up his face, making Arthur wince in sympathy, and proffer the plastic glass full of cold water.

“It’s kind of pathetic,” Merlin says, between exhales. But he takes the water, and sips at it. “A grown man communicating through his toy tiger.”

“It’s not pathetic.” With a mock frown, Arthur deposits Hobbes on the regulation NHS blanket. “What’s pathetic is the speed, or rather lack of it, with which you’re munching that toast. And you need to drink your tea.”

“It’s still too hot.” With a reluctant shrug, Merlin takes another bite, which he chews at in a desultory fashion, and promptly chokes on. After a suitable pause while Arthur thumps him on the back and offers more water, Merlin sinks back onto a mountain of pillows with a sigh.

“Look, there is no way that you can move out, not now!” Arthur senses that now is his chance, and feels his way around the right words. “For a start off, you haven’t found anywhere to move to, yet. And for seconds, it’s going to take months for you to recover. You can barely eat without choking!”

“Thanks a bunch!” Merlin replies. His voice is still weak, but there’s a spark of something that Arthur has sorely missed as he adds, with an indignant tilt to his eyebrows. “You don’t need to sound so happy about it. Prat.”

“But I am happy,” says Arthur, grinning broadly to underline his words. “I know I haven’t told you this before but…” he draws in a deep breath and stares at the hospital window, where outside the pigeons are chasing each other around on the sill, wings flapping in excitement. “…the fact is that I never wanted you to move out. And I know it was selfish of me, but that is why I behaved like, as you put it so eloquently at the time, an arrogant arse…”

“And a self-centred twat.”

“Ah, so you do remember the conversation! But I did behave abysmally, Merlin, and it was because I have been too cowardly to speak to you about…” Arthur bites his lip.

“About what?” Merlin takes a sip of tea from the other plastic cup, and pulls a face. “I can’t wait to get back to some decent mugs, that’s for sure.”

Something clicks in Arthur’s head. He sits up a little straighter, draws in breath and opens his mouth.

 

“Well. The fact is… um. well. The fact is that…” It’s Arthur’s turn to cough now, a kind of deep-throated harrumph that serves mostly to stretch out the moment while he dredges up the correct vocabulary. “The fact is that um... I love you more than I can say…”

There. Finally! He’s said it. All the important words, in one big whoosh. He’s grinning like a loon, and Merlin’s smiling a dopey-eyed smile back at him. He’s on a roll now!

“...And I thought I lost you,” he carries on, really getting into his stride. “And it turns out that Joni Mitchell was right all along. About the tree museum and all that. And how you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s, um. Gone. Um. And I’d like to, um, the fact is, if you would consider staying in the flat, the fact is, I mean. Ahem. Oh, god I’m as bad as Hugh Grant—”

“That’s lucky,” says Merlin, a tender expression softening his eyes. “Because, as it happens, I’ve always had a soft spot for posh, inarticulate clotpoles. And stammering declarations of undying love.”

“That you have!” Arthur barks out a laugh. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I was scared that I might be losing you. I resented your book being published, simply because I knew it would take you away from me, and I behaved abominably, and then you got sick, and I realised what an idiot I had been, because I could have lost you forever, and I’m sorry.”

“Oh, my God, Arthur.” Merlin’s eyes are suspiciously bright and there’s a drop of moisture on his cheek. “You fucking idiot. I love you so much. You’re a total fucking clotpole with nothing but the poshest of fluff between those immaculate ears. Why the fuck didn’t you say anything before?”

“I didn’t want to spoil things.” It sounds pretty lame, now Arthur comes to say so. “Plus, as you would be the first to admit, or possibly the second, after Morgana, I’m a complete idiot. When it comes to love, I mean.” And that’s when the penny drops. “What did you just say?”

“You’re a fucking clotpole?”

“Before that.”

Merlin grins fit to make his cheeks burst. “The bit where I said I love you?”

“Yeah!” Beaming back, Arthur clutches Hobbes to his chest, as if to prevent it from exploding with the sheer exuberance of the moment. “That bit! Say that again.”

“I love you,” says Merlin, obligingly. “Prat.”

“Oh, you had to spoil it all!” replies Arthur. “I love you too. Idiot.”

“Clotpole.”

“Bumpkin.”

“Dollophead. Oh, fuck, stop making me laugh, Arthur, it hurts.” Merlin squeezes his pillow tightly, shoulders shaking. “Jesus.”

There’s another paroxysm of coughing. Arthur pats Merlin sympathetically on the back as he subsides into a lop-sided grin. “In that case, would you perhaps consider… I mean… dinner and such? And maybe a show? I mean… please stay?”

“I’d love to.” Merlin’s smile widens into a hint of the starburst of joy that Arthur craves. “On one condition?”

“What might that be?”

“As soon as I am well enough,” says Merlin. “We are going to have lots of extremely rampant gay sex all over the flat. You’ve been flaunting that perfect body wrapped only in a towel for too long!”

“Oh, thank Christ!” Arthur beams back at him. “Definitely. And as soon as you’re better, I’m going to rip those obscene trousers off your skinny hips and shag you senseless up against every kitchen work surface. I can’t wait.”

Of course, when all the staff on the ward burst into spontaneous applause it kind of spoils things for a moment, until it doesn’t because, even though he’s in a hospital and his actual soul mate is still hooked up to intravenous antibiotics… this… on balance… yes, this might be the very best day of his entire life.

 

***END***

 

**Epilog**

Six months later

 

*

 

An abrupt noise wakes Arthur, who blinks at Merlin’s phone on the night stand that graces other side of the bed, and grins when he sees who is calling. He reaches across his slumbering boyfriend, stopping only to drop a fond kiss onto the unruly midnight curls that are poking out from beneath their duvet. It has been a long night.

He presses the green button to accept the incoming call, and lies back down on the pillow. 

“ _Dobroye utro_ , Hunith,” he says into the phone, in his most convincing Russian accent, pitching his voice as low as he can. “You are reach Dmitri. Merlin busy with morning blow jobs. Please be to leave message.”

“Oh, God.” By his side, Merlin stirs. There's a deep groan. A disgruntled, sleepy face emerges, followed by a grabby arm and hand. “Noooo! Not Dmitri! Your Russian accent is god awful! Save us! You utter, utter prat.”

“Oh, hello, Arthur dear,” says Hunith, all brisk and no nonsense as usual, although Arthur can hear a smile in her voice. “Is Merlin up yet?”

“Da, is up,” says Arthur-slash-Dmitri.  “Up, up, up! Is very up, like tent pole! Big strong up!”

“Ugh! For fuck’s sake, Arthur you giant tosser,” cries Merlin, flinging back the covers to make a wild snatch at his phone. His hair is tousled and sticking in clumps around his ears, and his face beginning to pink. “Stop winding my mum up and give me my bloody phone or I’ll withdraw all blow-job privileges!”

“You wouldn’t” gasps Arthur in his own voice, even as he holds said object as far away from Merlin as possible.

“I would.” Merlin glares. His lips press out into a pretty pink moue.

“Wouldn’t.” Grinning, the hand that holds the phone still extended away from Merlin's reach, Arthur turns his head to draw closer to the shell of Merlin’s nearest ear, a hypersensitive area that he has discovered with great delight can give him instant and extremely gratifying results. He blows on the lobe and adds, in a growly sort of whisper that he ensures sends air gusting all over the back of pearly folds of skin, “You love giving blow jobs.”

“Would, too.” Merlin’s voice catches in the middle of the word, as Arthur gives his ear an abrupt little nip.

“BOYS!” yells Hunith, her voice a tinny Welsh whisper. “I don’t have time for this! For God’s sake, bloody well get on with your blow jobs and call me back when you’re done." Abruptly, the phone goes silent.  

"Ugh, Jesus, Arthur," cries Merlin. "Urged to have sex by my own mother! God, that has to count as the least sexy start to the day, ever!"

"And yet," says Arthur, still, and he's inordinately proud of this, completely in character. "You have hard-on!" 

“It's a morning glory!" Still pouting, Merlin throws himself back upon his pillow, flashing Arthur dark looks that give him all sorts of delicious-feeling shivers. "You are such a twat! I am never, ever, ever going to have sex with you ever again.” 

“Is no problem,” drawls Arthur-slash-Dmitri. “We can do blow jobs, da?” He turns to nuzzles behind Merlin’s ear, licking at the soft spot on his neck that makes him shiver and raises delicate bumps on his skin.  “First I suck you big strong pole.”

"In your dreams." But there's a crack in Merlin's voice, and the statement ends with a sort of whimper. Aha! 

Sensing imminent victory, Arthur presses his lips to the taut sinews of Merlin's throat and collar bones, sucking a satisfying mark there, before turning his attention to the rose-pink nub of Merlin's left nipple. 

“Oh, God, Arthur, your mouth, ugh, you colossal tease, oh, God,” breathes the now-squirming Merlin, who can never resist Arthur's mouth on any part of his body, from the pink curl of his ear to the blunt tips of his toes. “God, yeah, ugh, all right, you can suck me off, you arrogant pseudo-Russian bastard.”

“Is my pleasure.” Arthur's not lying. He adores the way that his lips and tongue can turn Merlin into a babbling, gasping mess. "And after, you suck me off, yes?"

Taking a moment to put Merlin’s phone on mute, he flings it across the room, where it lands with a clatter, before letting his lips whisper down the long arc of Merlin’s chest, to the bony jut of his hip, and beyond.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Not my characters, I'm not getting paid for this work.


End file.
